


The feeling of sleepiness when you are not in bed, and can't get there, is the meanest feeling in the world

by Biromantic_Nerd



Series: Biro's Bad Things Happen Bingo [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Canon-Typical Violence, Don't Post To Another Site, Don't copy to another site, Exhaustion, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, No Romance, One Shot, not a lot of comfort in this hurt/comfort. more like a PRELUDE to the comfort, worked themselves to exhaustion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29790489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Biromantic_Nerd/pseuds/Biromantic_Nerd
Summary: His alarm woke him far too soon. Well, actually, no it didn't. It woke him exactly when it was supposed to. But it justfeltlike it was too soon, was the thing. The warmth of his blankets was like a siren call and he - the foolish smitten sailor - leaned into the allure and burrowed deeper. Five minutes, he swore. Just five.(Bad Things Happen Bingo prompt 3: "Worked Themselves To Exhaustion" + "Dick Grayson")
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Everyone
Series: Biro's Bad Things Happen Bingo [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2186613
Comments: 6
Kudos: 58





	The feeling of sleepiness when you are not in bed, and can't get there, is the meanest feeling in the world

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Squishychickies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squishychickies/gifts).



> For clarification: in this fic, I have Stephanie and Cass being called Batgirl. [Marvel fans, think Hawkeye (Clint) and Hawkeye (Kate)] I just think it's neat
> 
> fic title: quote by E.W. Howe
> 
> warning: implied self harm in that Dick has been neglectful to his needs which includes eating issues
> 
> dedicated to Squishychickies who requested the "worked themselves to exhaustion" square + "Dick Grayson"

His alarm clock went off at its new-usual time, and he groaned against his pillow. Dick kept his eyes closed for a few extra futile seconds that didn't actually grant him any additional rest but _did_ make him feel a little better about having to get up.

One of his long-standing clients had recently changed their booked time slot from seven in the morning to six; he agreed to the switch because she'd needed the earlier time slot because her job had transferred her without notice and so now her commute time was an hour longer. He had sympathized. After all she had been a long time client - one of his very first clients actually - and he'd be sad to see her go dude to something as menial as a schedule change. If it was a different client, he'd probably not have offered to start earlier. But they had a rapport, a friendship even. Plus she had never flirted with him and he really appreciated that in a client; he hadn't known how much he'd appreciate that until he'd had other clients hit on him. Someone who was serious about their training like she was - well he was more apt to accommodate them at the cost of his own sleep.

So starting three weeks ago, Dick had lost an hour of sleep every single day. Which didn't sound like a big deal. Seven, six - no huge difference between them right? Except that his excursions as Nightwing usually lasted until at least three in the morning. So that hour between seven and six _was_ a big deal to him. 

Roughly two and a half hours of sleep versus roughly three and a half hours of sleep. Huge difference. It should have been a no-brainer. 

Yet here he was, yawning into his fist at five fifteen while he scrambled some eggs in a pan on his electric plug in countertop burner - his apartment didn't have an actual stove, so no stovetop either - and accidentally burned the edges of his toast before he remembered that he'd put some in the toaster. 

His shower-damp hair made him chilly even in his heated apartment and dripped onto the towel slung over his shoulders as he ate. When finished, he pattered across the kitchen tile in his socks as he gave the frying pan a quick rinse, put his fork and plate in the sink to deal with later - moved the spatula he'd used while cooking from the counter to the sink as well - and made sure that he had unplugged the burner after being done using it.

He yawned around his toothbrush and stood there for a moment, blinking away the tears that came sometimes with a yawn. He put on his coat and slid into his boots that were much more suitable for the trek across town than his exercise shoes that he kept in his personal locker at the gym were. 

He grabbed his Hydro Flask, took his cell phone off the charger and put it in his pocket. He grabbed one of the loose hair ties he kept on the top of his dresser. He'd pull up his hair later. But for now, he grabbed his keys from the ceramic dish he kept them in and headed through the door with the promise of buying himself a warm cup of holiday-flavored coffee.

* * *

After work, he collapsed into his couch, slumping his head over the back with a sigh. He stared at the ceiling as he kicked his feet up on his coffee table. Normally he took his boots off before doing that but today he found that he couldn't bother. It was fine. One day of boot grime wouldn't ruin the coffee table. Besides he'd clean it. Later.

He still needed to eat something before he had to start stretching out for his activities as Nightwing but he just stayed there, draped over the couch and staring at the ceiling. Unwilling to move just quite yet. His boots dripped icy slush onto the coffee table underneath them and the novel on top of that besides them. He'd borrowed that novel from Donna; if he continued like this, it'd get damaged and then he'd had to buy a new version to replace this one. Besides, he really should get up to reheat those cans of soup that he had meant to have yesterday for dinner but had forgotten, which meant that he still could have them for dinner today. Really should get up and do that.

He closed his eyes.

The quiet apartment filled with the robotic tune of his cell phone alerting him to a phone call. _Really_. 

His eyes opened and gazed at the ceiling for a long moment before he reached into his pocket and withdrew the ringing phone. His eyebrows rose at the caller ID. Now that was someone who didn't call him often. "Hello?"

"Hey, Dick. You busy?" Stephanie asked with the kind of voice that promised an eventful night.

At last Dick removed his boots from the coffee table; the novel was, for now, saved, but his rug was going to be in danger. But at least his rug had already suffered far worse than snow, so he didn't feel bad. The apartment was quiet.

His boots were still on; he stood up to finally take them off so that he could shed his day clothes, shimmy into his Nightwing suit, and then leave to wherever Stephanie needed him.

"Not at all - why, what's up?"

* * *

When he dropped down on the specified roof of to meetup, Batgirl waved at him.

He waved back. It'd been a while since he'd seen her in costume. Whenever Bruce allowed Dick to team up with Damian again, Stephanie usually jumped at the chance to work with Batman. And when the two of them were flying solo, their paths also just seemed to diverge way more oft than it ever crossed. Part of that was being in different cities and part of that was Stephanie teaming up with Cass, who frequently flocked to team ups with the Birds of Prey. Most of it though was because she and Dick didn't really interact all that much outside of their shared denominator of Tim and Bruce.

"We got a minute?" He asked and then went ahead and used the time it would take her to answer to stretch out further. He had, of course, done his preliminary stretches before he'd left; but it'd been a choice between his secondary stretches and eating, so he had compromised by doing some of his secondaries and hastily stuffing a couple granola bars into his utility belt to quickly scarf down on his way to Gotham before he had climbed out of his window. 

"Go ahead," Stephanie answer but then watched him in amusement. "You're not getting rusty are you? It's been a while - can you still keep up with me?" 

He took the good-natured teasing as it was intended; neither of them needed to say that they weren't sure that they'd ever teamed up like this, just the two of them. "It _has_ been a while since we've teamed up." He grinned and then locked his elbows into a ninety degrees angle and lifted them so his palms were out - which looked like a perpetrator with extreme posture surrendering - and externally rotated his shoulders. Which definitely took away his advantage in banter by making him look silly - but would be worth it later when his movements were more fluid and he came home with shoulders that did not ache. "But I assure you that I'm totally good to go. On the other hand... You sure that _you_ can keep up with me?"

" _I'm_ lead on this one," Batgirl reminded him with an equally wide grin. She generously ignored his stretching and continued their banter like they were both on the equal footing of not looking ridiculous. Something his brothers never would have opted to let go, he knew there was a reason he liked her even though they weren't very close. "And don't you forget it!"

"Right, right." Dropping the stretch, he waved a hand in apology. He was used to taking lead lately on team up but he knew how to acquiesce and not step on someone else's toes when they were lead instead of him. "Anyone else joining us?" He lowered and shook out his arms, nodded at the feeling in his deltoid and lat muscles. The major stretches were all necessities that he always, always completed before setting out every night; but it was just nicer to _also_ do the unnecessary stretches when he had time for those too. Especially lately since there had been a persistent all over soreness that draped over him for no reason he could discern. He always made sure that he stretched out his shoulders and external obliques at least once a week - and his hamstrings and quadriceps at least twice a week - but still he definitely preferred whenever he could manage to do his round of secondary stretching.

"What," Batgirl laughed, "You think we can't handle it? No, just waiting on O's signal now."

He nodded; he had listened to her explain that part over speakerphone earlier while he had gotten changed into his suit. "It's just - " He brought his arms back behind his torso, tucked his chin, and focused on stitching out the Pectoralis major in his chest by slowly raising his clasped hands. "You usually ask Red Robin," Nightwing reasonably pointed out, pushing his chest out gently and holding the position. "Or Batgirl. Color me surprised, is all." He softly released his grip and brought his arms to his rest at his side again, the stretch finished.

Batgirl paused, put her hands on her hips, and peered up at him. "Yeah, well." Her voice was chipper. "I asked you!"

With the flattered air that he enjoyed showing to his allies and enemies alike, Nightwing lifted a hand to his chest in imitation of a Southern belle. "Aw shucks."

The coms softly crackled to life in their ears. "Don't feel too special there. Batgirl and Red Robin are currently not talking to each other," Babs clarified, causing Batgirl to groan.

So _that_ was it. Understanding and incredulity both washed over him. "Again?"

"Why is it that my personal business never stays personal?" Batgirl grumbled but she didn't look all too surprised. As she shouldn't be.

That was not something new to any Bat. To the outside world, their secrets were impenetrable. However between them? Business and personal lives were intermixed messily like paint on a palette and all too frequently became inseparable. None of them expected any different. Secrets never held any promise of staying secret - not between them - and the knowledge of that was something that Dick knew far too intimately.

Everyone had skeletons in their closets; it was only a matter of time until _when_ someone dragged them out, not _if_. And though expecting it, no one could really get used to the raw brutality of having those skeletons unearthed.

And it terrified him. oh absolutely. There were things that should never ever be dragged out from his closet, and he would bury those skeletons as deeply as he could in a fruitless attempt to prevent the inevitable. Or at least to prolong it until he could somewhat stomach even the thought of the fallout that would occur when it happened. Secrets were the family business; it was perhaps, ironic then that secrets were not kept in their family and would always be unearthed.

Oracle's voice broke through his uneasy musing. "Batman and Robin are downtown handling a Catwoman case. Batgirl's in France with the Birds of Prey." He made a noise of understanding. See? Not Stephanie's first choice at all but it made more sense now with her usual team-ups out of the picture. Still, even though they weren't close it didn't mean that they weren't both Bats. Of course they had each other's backs. Besides - personality wise - he thought that they got on pretty well together actually. "I've confirmed the location of the warehouse. Signal countdown is almost go. A window of T-minus thirteen minutes for you guys to get there and sneak inside in time to intercept. Head to positions... Now."

And then they were off, running like racehorses at the Kentucky Derby and leaping rooftop to rooftop like only a Bat could. 

Batgirl had discovered intel that suggested there was going to be a movement between small time gang members in either an Eastern warehouse or - more likely, Stephanie had said over the phone - a Southern warehouse. The gang members were small fry but their product was supposedly a couple of canisters harvested from a recent Joker attack. Canisters that supposedly still had a fresh supply of product in it, unreleased during the attack for whatever reason.

In the short time it had taken Dick to get to Gotham to meet up with Stephanie, Barbara had already investigated Stephanie's intel and narrowed down from her list of potential warehouses affiliated with those gangs and found the exact one - and the exact time of it. It was up to the two of them now to stop it. Stephanie's plan of infiltrating the warehouse and then springing a trap sounded like a lot of fun; but if that didn't work, the two of them would be more than happy to crash the party regardless. 

* * *

The room blurred like a water-stained photograph. Dick blinked and suddenly everything sharpened as to what it should have been. He shook his head and blinked again, gripping more tightly to the rafter that he was perched on. This time, his vision stayed as it ought to have.

Well _that_ had been weird. Nightwing wondered if the lenses had gotten smudged somehow on the inside on his mask. It was not supposed to, of course, do that.

"Now what are _you_ doing?" Batgirl rhetorically asked of the suspicious man below them who had just stepped into the warehouse holding a shiny metal briefcase. The man did not hear her quiet amused question, and Nightwing watched as he continued inside with a group that looked like a security entourage. Inside the briefcase was almost certainly the expected canisters,

Nightwing watched them carefully; the shapes of them stayed solid the the room did not bleed into watercolor. "Shall we?" He asked Batgirl as the group in the warehouse met the man and his entourage with the politeness required of business partners and the brusqueness required of gang members. He turned to look at the blonde in time to see her answering smile. 

"We shall." And then she shot her grappling hook at a rafter and swung down, bowling over two men with the velocity of her swinging kick descent.

Not to be outdone, Nightwing dove. The air rushed around him as he tucked himself into a ball, rotated, and then spread all his limbs out with the panache of a performance. He knew how it looked it those in that brief moment of descent - and it looked good - but the feeling of it was even better. 

He grinned as he used someone's shoulders as a springboard. Interrupting his fall speed and catching himself enough, back-flipping with a delighted laugh off of the man who shouted angrily while Nightwing reached behind himself. As he landed his feet to the dusty warehouse ground, the eskrima sticks were in hand - just at that moment his feet touched cement - with a synergy that Nightwing enjoyed. It just _looked_ cool to manage to time it so perfectly. 

"Show off," Batgirl accused as the men left standing rushed to attack them. Her spinning roundhouse collided with someone's chin and spun her torso around low enough in a dip that the punch thrown at where seconds ago her face used to be was avoided entirely. 

"Oh and like you weren't?" He asked, bringing the eskrima stick in his left hand up to swiftly crack the gun out of someone's grip before they could even raise to aim while with his right hand he twirled the stick once and used its momentum to shove at the man going for Batgirl's back. Still low, she pushed off the ground with one palm and swiveled, sweeping her leg low unexpectedly and tripping the man who'd been trying to flee with the briefcase. 

"Ooh," Batgirl said in playful faux sympathy that did not at all hide her excitement, "And down he goes!"

Using his forearm, Nightwing caught an elbow and redirected the punch away with a downward twist, stepping into the motion and using his other foot to kick the suitcase away from the hands that grabbed for it. "Heads-up!" He called out and Batgirl swiftly stopped the trajectory of the briefcase with the heel of her boot as it slid on cement.

She picked up the briefcase. "You want it?" She asked the goons left that were still standing, sending Nightwing a sly glance.

Nightwing braced in a slight crouch with his eskrima sticks extended and crackling. "Then come and get it," He said, finishing her taunt per his cue. As all good teammates should.

Criminals. They just never learned. The gang members charged forward. Nightwing dropped his weight onto his forward leg, leaning into his sturdy stance, and swung his left eskrima stick into uppercutting electricity into the soft underneath of a chin while using his right eskrima stick to cross-guard with the blade of a utility knife.

Batgirl used the velocity of a rushing man against him and flipped him soundly over her shoulder. She then swung the briefcase in her hand and smashed it against someone's skull and, as he blinked stars out of his eyes, she threw him to the floor as him.

"Oh," Batgirl said and winced. "Probably shouldn't use this, huh?"

"Yeah," Nightwing agreed, considering that there were canisters of Joker Venom in there that could potentially erupt if too much force was exerted on them. "Good call."

For a moment - a brief moment - as he lifted his eskrima stick, the world titled before his eyes. Blurred like a camera going out of focus that turned the world into a smudge of gray that was accented on his peripheral vision by blue electric sparks like some sort of electric painting. He'd barely blinked however and the moment had ended. By the time the eskrima stick clashed together - electricity sparking down the metal which acted as a conduit - with the broken lead pipe a man had scavenged from the warehouse and was wielding, his vision settled into sharp clarity as it ought to have.

He took a moment to twirl both eskrima sticks in his grasp and recenter himself.

With a grunt of exertion, Batgirl threw the heaviest of the men, having lunged at his stomach and lifted him with both arms, briefcase dangling in hand even as she gripped his hips and slammed him overhead into the ground.

"You know," Nightwing said conversationally as he used his boot to press down on the chest of the fallen man who had originally carried the briefcase and who was now trying to rise. "I wonder how you got what's in that briefcase?"

The man underneath his foot sneered and used both hands to try and twist his ankle. Nightwing intercepted by sharply swatting down upon his wrists using the eskrima stick in his left hand, shocking him in the process. With the eskrima stick in his right hand, he threw it at the goon trying to take advantage of his possible distraction by rushing to attack him. The man fell and Batgirl swiftly scooped up the eskrima stick and transferred the briefcase to her left hand, wielding the borrowed eskrima stick without hesitation.

He didn't usually play this card but the way his vision had spun and blurred made him feel no qualms about pulling it. "Unless..." Nightwing questioned slowly, "You'd rather explain yourself to Batman? Tell _him_ what you're doing with Joker gas?"

The man paled. A small fry like him? There was the minuscule chance that he might not have even encountered Batman before, just Robin or Red Robin at most. But usually? Even seasoned big shots preferred to avoid the Bat whenever possible. "No, no, I'll tell you."

"Yeah," Nightwing took a cursory look around the room. The fight was well over. Batgirl had set down the briefcase and was now securing the fallen gang members' weapons and tying their wrists with nylon. "I had a feeling you might."

* * *

Back in his own city, Nightwing touched down on a roof for but a moment before he heard a distant scream. He stood to his full height and ran to the roof''s edge. Jumped. _Flew_.

Duty called. 

* * *

He unlocked his window with the electronic biometric key sewn into the wrist of his suit, a feature which Barbara and Alfred had worked together on installing as well as making waterproof within the suit. He climbed inside his apartment and closed the window, which locked automatically.

He pulled off his boots and carried them in one hand as he walked barefoot through the apartment to reach his bedroom, used his free hand to hit the light switch in his bedroom. He set down his boots on a built in shelf in his closet and then removed his eskrima sticks from their place on his back and set those too down on the shelf in his closet. He ran a finger down the all weather electrical tape that coated the eskrima sticks and resolved to rewrap the end where one looked like, though it wasn't yet, it _might_ begin to peel in the near future if it was exposed to wetness - which in the winter like it was, it definitely would be. He then removed himself from his suit and hung it on a hanger. Back at the manor, he had a Styrofoam bust that displayed and kept the suit's shape while he wasn't wearing it; here, he just hung it up liked any of his shirts because folding it caused wrinkles. 

Dressed in his underwear and mask, he moved to the bathroom to get a cotton ball and his bottle of spirit gum remover. He sat on the ledge of his sink counter as he worked the spirit gum remover across his face and mask until he could carefully peel it away from his skin just enough to rub the area underneath there too, dissolving the resin bond with gentle patient strokes before he truly lifted the mask to remove it entirely. When the mask was off, he quickly brushed his teeth.

Then he walked the short distance back to his closet and placed the mask on his closet shelf. His laundry basket was overflowing and he needed to catch up on it but he still threw his underwear on the precarious stack before he made his way back to the bathroom once more. 

The warmth of the shower washed away the chill of winter and the grime of sweat. He stood for a moment and closed his eyes, limbs loose and comfortable. Then he sighed and opened his eyes. He reached for his bottle of shampoo and as he was lathering it in his hands decided to skip conditioner for today so that the shower could be that much shorter.

The warmth of the shower made the chill of the bathroom tile that much more profound and he was glad to stay just long enough to wrap up in the towel from the rack before leaving to the carpet of his bedroom.

He grabbed one of his favorite sweatshirts to sleep in - it was oversized solely because he'd stolen it from Bruce. Well, _stolen_ was _such_ a harsh word. He'd had an unintended dip in a river, nearly contracted hypothermia, and had walked away from it with pneumonia and one of Bruce's old college alumni sweatshirts. He'd recovered from the pneumonia; Bruce however had never recovered the sweatshirt, though he had never asked. 

It was winter time and he had wet hair. He had intended to put on pajama bottoms or sweats, but after a quick rummage through his dresser realized that he didn't have any clean pairs or either left and had to settle just for boxers. To make up for it, he tried to be extra thorough in drying off his hair and using the towel to wring out all of the moisture there. The repetition of it was lulling and he was forced to blink the drowsiness out of his eyes or else risk accidentally drifting off; he still had so much to do before he could call it a night. Besides, he wasn't even in his bed yet or laying down. Geez.

He needed to sleep but he _also_ needed to eat.

He bit his lip and paused in the towel drying of his hair. Well, he could always take a quick nap and then eat after he woke up - so sleep it was. Tomorrow, he told himself, tomorrow he'd make himself an extra hearty meal. Maybe he'd even set together the ingredients for a stew to simmer in the Crock Pot while he was gone at work so that he could have two extra hearty, substantial meals tomorrow to makeup for today's lack.

He hung the towel over the top of the shower door to dry and grabbed the hair brush from the bathroom counter, quickly ran it through his hair without really paying attention to the task, and set it down.

Without even turning off the light switch in his bedroom, he climbed into his bed. He wrapped himself in his blankets, and he fell asleep.

* * *

His alarm woke him far too soon. Well, actually, no it didn't. It woke him exactly when it was supposed to. But it just _felt_ like it was too soon, was the thing. The warmth of his blankets was like a siren call and he - the foolish smitten sailor - leaned into the allure and burrowed deeper. Five minutes, he swore. Just five.

He followed the beckon. Closed his aching, sleep-heavy eyes.

* * *

His first thought upon waking was that he was so warm and comfortable and that he didn't want to move - ever. His second thought had him immediately bolting out of bed.

Frantically he glanced at his alarm clock but it just confirmed what he already knew. Five fifty-eight. That five minute nap had been way, waaaay more than five minutes, oh shoot, oh no. He rushed to the bathroom, skipped brushing his hair, and just focused on the necessities. Then he lifted up his sweatshirt, hurriedly swiped on deodorant, and scrambled into a clean pair of yoga pants from his dresser.

He grabbed his cell phone off the charger and rushed from his room, bypassing the living room entirely and heading towards the kitchen. He didn't have time to prepare the meal that he'd promised to himself last night - let alone the optimistic idea of a Crock Pot stew for later.

He scrubbed the sleep from his eyes with one hand and grabbed his box of granola bars with the other, intending to just take the whole thing and run - except that it was _empty_. Yesterday had apparently been the last of them. He set the empty box on the counter and ran that hand instead through his sleep-mussed hair. He did not have the time _or_ the energy for this today.

About to leave the kitchen, he paused.

There was coffee leftover still in the carafe from the unfinished pot he'd last brewed. It was, of course, well beyond cold and stale now. It had been - well, actually Dick wasn't sure exactly how many days it has been since he had brewed it. He didn't normally brew an entire pot of coffee but lately he'd been doing that sometimes. Of course for this one, he'd had to leave before he could even finish _half_ of the pot - had never gotten really been home long enough to make a new one - and he'd meant to dump it and rinse the carafe out to make some fresh but he just had never had the time to do so.

Now he was glad he hadn't the time to dump it. He grabbed the carafe and lifted the lid to drink directly from the pot. Unprepared for the bitter _old_ taste, he spat out the first sip into his kitchen sink. "Oh gross," He said over the sink that held his still unwashed plate, spatula, and fork from yesterday. He wrinkled his nose. The coffee must have been way older than he'd thought it was because he had done this - drank the leftover coffee - plenty of times before and it had never tasted _that_ stale and old like it did today.

Then as he was mouthing around the bad taste, he caught sight of the digital clock on the coffee machine. And so, with a grimace and after having braced himself for it, he took a long swig from the carafe. The taste was still awful. But he really needed to get going and really, really needed the caffeine.

Quickly he dipped his head under the sink faucet and rinsed his mouth out. He decided in that moment of gargling that he was never going to make fun of Tim for drinking too much coffee ever again.

...Okay he was _probably_ not going to make fun of Tim ever again. For at least a week or two. 

He spat the tap water out and reached to dump the pot of coffee - then hesitated. Later, he promised himself. He didn't have the time for it now. Unwilling to think too hard about how maybe 'later' meant that he'd be drinking this same awful coffee again instead of making it fresh if he kept carrying on like this. 

He grabbed his keys from the dish he kept them in and rushed out the door, locking it behind him.

The door was unlocked and opened not even a moment later. "Shoes, shoes shoes," Dick chanted as he ran back to his bedroom on bare feet. He shoved his feet into his boots and pocketed a pair of socks from his dresser to put on at a later time. He grabbed at - and fumbled at first - one of the hair ties that was on top of his dresser and then once more made to rush out the front door.

He was halfway down the apartment complex staircase before he realized that he'd forgotten his coat and his water bottle. 

_I need more sleep_ , he thought in despair when the winter air hit him full force even through Bruce's alumni sweatshirt and his cold weather yoga pants. He crossed his arms in an attempt to keep some of the chill away - a gesture he wouldn't have needed if he had just gotten out of bed when he'd supposed to. Except -

Except he really, really had needed the sleep. And even now still he really, really needed _even more_. 

Sometimes - when the room blurred or spun and his blinking eyes misted from too frequent yawns he couldn't suppress - sometimes he thought he could sleep an entire month or three away and still not be rested enough. He wanted to be able to go back to his bed and just stat still and unmoving for - even if not as long as it took to feel rested - just a while. 

But things kept moving. His sock-less feet in his boots across salted sidewalks and paved crosswalks. His hair tie from his wrist to his pulled up hair. Constant motion of the world that he had to be swept away in or else be lost too far behind its current to ever regain his stride. Socks tugged on, boots tugged off. Was it maudlin of him to think that things just kept going too much?

His client waiting for him forgave him for his lateness. Worried over him and brushed away his apologies before he had fully even finished offering them. 

"I thought something had happened to you," She said in relief; he felt bad then for not only being late but also for have worried her. "You've never been late before and the roads, well, you know what they're like in winter." 

"No, nothing happened." It was the truth, but the words oddly fell off his tongue like they'd been a lie.

* * *

"Hey, remember to track your macros," Dick called after his last client scheduled for the day.

"Will do! See you next time!" He promised and used the hand holding his water bottle to wave as he stepped out the gym area to leave instead of hitting the locker room, as lots of customers opted to do seeing as that Dick hadn't installed showers yet and so the locker room was essentially just for storage.

Dick wiped the barbell down and returned that and the bumper plates to the rack it belonged. After everything was sanitized, he headed towards the smaller, private locker area for personnel. "Hey, Kai?" Dick said as he passed by one of his employees who likewise just had finished with their last client. "Did you remember to straighten the free weights and make sure they're all lined up where they're supposed to be? Gina said this morning that one of her intro-level clients didn't check the marker and accidentally grabbed a misplaced kettlebell that was twice the amount she was supposed to use - ended up doing half a set before Gina realized and fixed it."

"Yeah," Kai said but contrarily shook their head and fell in step with Dick as he walked. "Gina told me so I've been checking all day. I don't know who put that in the wrong spot but I guess for now all we can do is check before the clients start the set."

"You think I should get color coordinated ones?" Dick asked. "It's not usually a problem but I don't want anyone hurting themselves."

Kai shrugged. "I wouldn't worry about it. But, hey, you _are_ the boss." Kai titled their head. "Actually, I think it'd be kind of badass if you got rainbow ones. Like not rainbow ones but - you know, ones that when you line them up? Bam, super queer."

"Your suggestion is noted," Dick replied, amused, as they both stepped into the small unisex locker room for personnel.

"Hey, Mr. Grayson," Annie said immediately upon spotting him. "I think someone's been calling your phone?"

Dick nodded in acknowledgement and thanks and made his way over to his locker where he could indeed hear the sound of a phone call vibrating his phone into the metal. He spun his combination lock and grabbed the phone, briefly glancing at the caller name and answering it.

"Hey, is everything okay?" Dick spoke before his brother could. "Because I'm not late, you know. I still need to close the gym up and then I'm on my way over."

"How long's that going to take?" Tim asked. When Dick considered it he added, "A rough estimate."

"Forty minutes? Longer if I can't hail a cab. Why? What's the rush? It's just dinner." He paused. "It _is_ just dinner, right? Nothing's happened?"

Tim's eyeroll was nearly audible.. "Calm down, Dick. I was just wondering."

That didn't seem likely, since _something_ had warranted Tim to make a phone call. "Uh huh." Dick pulled his hair tie out and let his hair down. Annie was tying her scarf over her coat, almost ready to leave, and Kai was brushing their hair and still not in their coat. Dick sat on the metal bench in between lockers and used one hand to unlace his athletic shoes.

"It's just," Tim sighed into the phone and without any further prompting divulged the reason for calling, "Alfred always invites Jason but he showed up again this time so now I him to deal with him _and_ Damian."

He stowed his shoes in the locker and took out his boots to put on. "You know, you could just try to get along with them." He couldn't place why - maybe it was the rough start to his day - but for some reason the feud between his brothers annoyed him a bit; Jason, Tim, and Damian had all made such progress on getting along - or at least not being outright hostile - and so maybe that was it. Maybe he just wondered why they couldn't come along a little further instead of regressing into something petty like a squabble over being in the same house. 

"Easy for you to say," Tim scoffed while Dick attempted to tie his boot laces with one hand. "If it was that simple, I'd have done it already."

That was a fair point. His strange bout of irritation left as quickly as it had come. "Yeah, well," Dick said and waved back to Annie as she waved to him before leaving. "Don't worry. I'll be there. I'll run interference. No biggie." That reminded him. "Hey, actually, did you and Stephanie have _another_ fight - "

"What?" Tim interrupted, surprised for a moment before he became annoyed. "No. I mean, yes but - God, I hate this family," Tim said and petulantly ended the phone call.

Dick set his cell phone down on the bench and used his now available hand to finish tying his other boot, having already finished the first. 

"See you later, boss," Kai said and departed from the locker room. And with that, Dick was free to start the closing routine to make sure everything was done for the day and ready to lock up. Luckily for him, Annie had already mopped the areas of the gym where Dick and Kai's clients weren't, so Dick also didn't have much floor left to mop up so it should go fairly quickly.

When he stood up, he must have done so too quickly. The room turned gray for a moment and he braced his palm on the cool metal of the lockers while he blinked it away until the world's saturation returned to him.

Water, he thought, he needed to drink more water since in his rush this morning he had forgotten his Hydro Flask back at the apartment.

* * *

It always made Dick amused when he used his house key to open the manor door. See, the security installed at the road leading up to Wayne manor, at the front gate to even be allowed to enter, all along the very long driveway, _and then_ at the front door itself? Plus all of the secret security that wasn't for the Waynes but for the Bats? Well all of that made the act of having to use a key to unlock the front door amusing. No one could even get to the front door without having passed through all of the earlier security, and the redundancy of it was kind of a silly measure to stop intruders - because what was a _key_ going to do that all of that wouldn't have? But in a way, it seemed even more silly should they _not_ lock the door at all - because what are Bat contingency plans if not thorough - so locked it remained.

The foyer was empty and the manor seemed a little too quiet, considering that it contained at least four Bats at the moment. The quiet didn't last long; Dick took his phone out of the pocket of his yoga pants as it rang. "Tim?"

"Jason's lurking in the library and Damian is _downstairs_. I need to finish this essay on _The Grapes of Wrath_ so could you _please_ get Jason away from the library so I can finish?"

Dick headed towards the grand staircase. "Well, Timmy, I will certainly try my best."

He peered into the open door of the library and leaned on the door frame. He watched with a smile as Jason flipped a page to a book he wasn't actually reading because if he _had_ been reading it, he wouldn't have been standing up. "Hey," Dick called softly before he entered the room. He didn't think for one moment that he'd taken Jason off guard or that Jason hadn't been aware of his approaching presence but - well, but just in case. It was good not to sneak up on him.

He ignored him as if he truly was finishing one last riveting paragraph before he closed the book in his hands and finally glanced away from it. When Jason saw him, his eyebrows shot up. "What the fuck are you wearing?" Jason asked and then his eyebrows lowered. "Why are you dressed like a wannabe influencer - and _where_ is your coat?"

"Aw, Jay," Dick smiled. "You do care." Jason pulled a face but didn't bother arguing over something so small. "I forgot my coat at my apartment. And I came straight here from work, so..." He shrugged. "Well actually I don't normally wear this - " He tugged at the collar of Bruce's college alumni sweatshirt, " -to work."

His brother scoffed. He slid the book back into the bookcase and then shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "You'd never make it as an influencer anyways. The bags under your eyes could rival the Replacement's."

"Oh, speaking of Tim," Dick segued smoothly, "He kind of needs the library." Normally he wouldn't use the truth as a means to distract Jason - not when it involved Tim - but he had a plan.

"And?" Jason asked, and the way he titled his head seemed to jut out his chin. "I ain't stopping him."

"It's for an English essay," Dick informed him as if that would entice him into complying.

Jason paused. Examined the words like they were a mousetrap m before deciding that he was a cat and needn't be concerned. "What do I care? I'm not writing it."

"You don't care," He agreed politely. "And no you're not writing it."

Jason narrowed his eyes. He studied Dick for a long moment. And that was the trick here. The situation called for a lack of manipulation - such outright honesty that it was, bizarrely, almost a form of manipulation in itself. They were all so used to parsing hidden meanings and decoding subtle clues that when there _weren't_ any they still looked for them; and sometimes this made them read too deeply into something that wasn't even there in the first place. It was one of the drawbacks of being taught by the World's Greatest Detective. They always tried to decode things. Even when there wasn't anything _to_ detect.

Then Jason's suspicious gaze slowed as a new thought visibly came to him. He looked at Dick still - but this time it much in a much different way. Then Jason asked him something but -

The words mushed together. Dick tilted his head but still couldn't decipher the muddled words. "Sorry, could you repeat that?" 

Removing his hands from his pockets, Jason crossed his arms. "You weren't listening?" The look in his eye was intent rather than annoyed.

"No I was - " He cut himself off with a grimace, not wanting to explain. He laughed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Distracted, yeah, sorry."

"Not like you to be distracted." The way Jason said it, it came out more like an idle observation of fact. A narrator's voice on a documentary, not commenting on anything opinionated at all and remaining detached from any situation at hand. He would have called it placid except for that focused glint in his eyes as he stared at Dick and observed _something_ of interest to him, gleaned some sort of information from him.

It raised Dick's hackles. "Yeah, well," He clucked his tongue, "Everyone has their off moments."

Minutely Jason titled his head. Unlike before, this time his jaw didn't jut out with the motion and the lack made him seem softer than he often opted to appear as. "Even you." It wasn't a question. His brother watched him like a nature documentary camera bore witness as a baby albatross was blown out of the nest by the wind.

Still Dick smiled and answered, "Even me." At that, Jason nodded and the curly shock of white fell onto his forehead. He smoothed it away with casual ease. "So," Dick prompted his brother, hoping to interrupt this weird tension and return things back to normal, "What were you saying?"

Dick drew back, surprised, before Jason had even spoken.

The blue of Jason's eyes reminded him of Bruce. "Oh," His voice was lofty and it sounded more Jason-ish, which was a relief. "Nothing important. Just that I remembered I needed to go talk to Alfred about something."

"Oh." Dick blinked. He didn't believe him. But he couldn't decode the hidden meanings that might lay underneath what had just transpired. So he had to concede. He then gestured with one hand as if to grant permission to leave even though Jason didn't need permission to leave. "Yeah, of course."

"Catch you later, Dickie," Jason said with a joyless smile. But then he clapped his hand down amiably on Dick's shoulder as he passed by him to get to the door.

The silence of the room came as a relief to the headache he hadn't even known that he had until now. 

Now aware of the dull pain there, he rubbed weary circles into his temples and sighed.

* * *

"Kidney _and kidney_ pie," Alfred declared and set down the vegetarian plate in front of Damian. He pushed his trolley of food onward, not at all expecting to verbally express his gratitude. It was something his youngest brother was capable of but he tended to deploy manners like a strategic maneuver, only using them when the time and situation would benefit him from it. Occasionally Damian would remember that he didn't need to utilize politeness - that it could exist simply for the sake of existing - but for the majority, skipped niceties to save time. 

Alfred didn't always serve them their meals like this, though unless they got take-out he always made their meal. Dick had never quite figured out the rhyme or reason behind Alfred's urges to either serve the meal as they were seated - sometimes using the cart he had today and sometimes gracefully carrying trays balanced on his hands like acrobats on a wire - or to have served it beforehand and have them arrive to dinner waiting on the table.

Sometimes he thought about asking but, well, it just seemed kind of fun not to know. Or maybe that was just something sentimental inside of him leftover from his childhood of wondering that very question. To know now would be too strange and would end that small, insignificant connection to his childhood that just was nicer to have than to not have, though he couldn't explain why.

"Steak and kidney pie for the rest of you." He set down a portion before Bruce.

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce said. He accepted the thanks gracefully and then rolled his cart onward to serve a plate to Tim, waited for the thanks sent his way, and then to Jason, who likewise thanked Alfred as well.

When he reached Dick, Alfred set his serving down on the charger plate and yet strangely still held a portion on the trolley even though Dick had been the last one served. Maybe it was in case Cass had come home early from France or if Duke decided to join them for dinner instead of his uncle? It was just strange though; usually Alfred never miscounted even with the wide berth of alternating combinations of who was or wasn't joining them for meals.

"Thanks, Alfred," Dick said with a smile. But yet Alfred lingered, which was surprising but not at all unwelcome.

"He was right," Alfred murmured.

"What's that?" Dick asked and looked up at him more closely than he'd been.

Face clearing, Alfred smiled. "Ah, just speaking to myself, my boy." He then served him the additional plate of the steak and kidney pie that had been left on the cart, setting it down on the placement seeing as he _already had_ a plate placed on his charger plate. "Here you are, Master Dick."

The only time Alfred had ever served him two plates at once before, it'd been dessert plates when he was much, much younger. Predictably now Dick was confused. He looked around the table but no one appeared to think anything of it. They _had_ to have noticed. There was no way they couldn't have. It was entirely inconspicuous in its place on the table without a charger plate underneath. And yet no one reacted to this baffling occurrence besides Alfred, who took his leave with the now empty rolling cart. 

Except, Dick noticed then as he turned away to give the appearance of solely watching Alfred leave though he kept his peripheral vision on the table and its occupants, also for Damian and Jason. Damian's eyes occasionally glanced to the second plate before immediately they darted away. It was sort of like whenever he was too shy to admit he felt interest in things that he thought he wasn't supposed to. But Dick didn't see how that was the case this time, seeing as there wasn't anything to have caught Damian's interest in a non-vegetation dinner. Now Jason on the other hand - he did not look away when Dick caught him looking. Instead his lips quirked, causing Dick's brow to furrow.

Alfred set a warm palm on Dick's shoulder, squeezed it lightly, and then set off with the trolley back to the kitchen.

He ignored the headache that he had and, shrugging off the oddness, began the task of eating two plates.

"Richard," Damian set down his fork and knife as he broke the silence. For a moment Dick thought someone was actually going to mention the extra serving Alfred had given him. "Seeing as you're here in Gotham, will you be joining Father and I tonight?"

As they all did, Dick had a spare uniform down in the cave. He wouldn't have to go all the way back to Bludhaven for his suit.

"Sure," He answered with a smile. This caused Damian to nod, pleased.

"I'm busy," Jason said unapologetically.

Damian's content air died as he looked away from his eldest brother and glared. "No one asked _you_."

"I'm also busy," Tim added.

Before Damian could comment, Dick addressed him. "Just you, me, and Bruce, huh? Sounds fun." His words instantly settled his youngest brother's potential ire.

Bruce chewed on a piece of asparagus and turned his way. His eyes, Dick noticed with a frown, looked like Jason's had earlier. 'No one's going anywhere until after dinner," He reminded Damian, who huffed in indignation at the suggestion that he wouldn't have otherwise done so without a reminder - but obligingly picked up his fork and knife once more.

Then Bruce smiled and his eyes softened. "Dick. Is that my sweatshirt?"

"No," Dick said with a pout at his theft being found out, "It's mine." And it was. _Now_. Very aware that it was indeed his old sweatshirt, still Bruce nodded in agreement to Dick's claim. Which was _great_ because this was his favorite thing to sleep in and he'd hate to have to give it up to return it.

Damian eyes the sweatshirt with slow consideration at the obvious allowance of theft and then appeared somewhat cheerful. Dick silently vowed to keep an eye out the next time Damian visited his apartment because something just gave him the feeling that, if he didn't, _he'd_ end up as the one with a sweatshirt or two stolen.

* * *

From the shadows, Robin dropped down on the roof across from him; even though Batman had earlier split the three of them up to patrol different sections, there was just a certain serendipity that tended to cause Robin to cross Nightwing's path for his patrol. Maybe it was just that Robins flocked together - or maybe it was just habit or preference evoked by the time they'd spent running patrols _together_. 

In any case, any element of surprise by Robin's sudden arrival was lessened in that Nightwing had grown up with Batman doing this but right behind him frequently, not across an entire building distance. But that also spoke for Robin's want to be seen, as Nightwing knew that if he had wanted to be more obscure about his arrival, then he very well was capable of it. 

Nightwing waved and made to cross over to join him. 

He leaped into a running aerial, flipping over the distance and landing flawlessly with feet together, arms upraised with all the performance of a gymnast before the judges.

Robin was silent as he watched this.

"You want a go?" Nightwing offered with a smile after he'd lowered his arms, tilting his chin in the direction of whence he has just came. 

This caused Robin to speak. "You and I both know that I know how to do it." That was true; Dick had taught him after all. But he also knew that - on slow nights like this especially - it felt so good to fly between rooftops and just have a bit of fun showmanship. "As we both know that such a novice move is no particular feat for you."

Nightwing grinned. "You want to see me do cooler tricks huh?"

Robin crossed his arms. "I merely am commenting on the way your capability far surpasses such a move, that's all."

The coms quietly crackled to life. "Mr. Freeze. Jewelry store on the East Side." 

He raised a finger to his com and spoke. "On our way, B." Nightwing answered and then lowered his hand. 

"ETA fifteen minutes," Robin said into his com. 

Robin eyed him and nodded. They both took off running. The next aerial flip, Nightwing transitioned it into forwards roll tuck that brought him through two revolutions and then landed with an _additional_ aerial flip.

"Tch," Robin said at his antics. And Nightwing would swear that the noise sounded impressed. 

The com transmitted, "Just finished up with Clayface at the Observatory. The Titans will wrap things up. Heading your way in less than five minutes."

"Confirmed," Batman answered. The brief word carried the background noise of glass shattering.

"I thought he was busy," Robin huffed. But when Nightwing glanced at him, he didn't look annoyed so he figured Damian's earlier annoyance had mostly stemmed from Tim and Jason's unhelpful interruptions to his conversation he'd been having. 

"Whoa." Nightwing looked at the icy carnage below in the street. His hand went to his grappling gun. "I think," He said as he shot the grappling gun and leapt off the building, "This guy needs to chill out."

The ground was far too icy to make an immediate landing at high speeds. He gripped onto the traffic light's pole, caught it like a gymnastics apparatus, and swung himself off up to perch on the metal beam that connected the traffic lights. He then dropped to the icy ground with no difficulty. Robin landed across the street from him, having opted to use the balcony of one of the high rise's apartments to grapple from instead of the roof they'd both jumped from, which slowed his descent. 

"This does seem over the top," Robin agreed through the com, on the private line between them.

Nightwing accordingly lifted his com and switched over to join him. "While I'm not one to talk about having a flair for dramatics, this _does_ seem extreme. Even for Mr. Freeze."

A crash sounded from inside the jewelry store and both Nightwing and Robin stopped surveying and moved into action. "B," Nightwing said, coms again tuned to the main channel, "You good?"

Red Robin was fighting the winter-themed henchmen inside the store. He swung his staff and used it to leverage the oncoming weight of one of the henchman rushing at him. The move was reminiscent of how Batgirl moved - just with a staff - and Dick smiled because all the time they'd spent joint training showed. 

"Batman is in the vault." Red Robin informed them. So was Mr. Freeze then. Robin leapt into the action of throwing a punch at one of the many excessive henchman overcrowding the room, then another punch.

"Robin," Nightwing instructed, "Stay here and help out RR."

Robin swiftly brought his arm back from his earlier thrown punch into an elbow that aimed backwards and jammed at the nose of one of Freeze's goons. "Understood."

If what he thought was happening was actually happening, it was going to be a long night. But it'd explain why Mr. Freeze had amped it up so much this time. 

He swiftly dealt with the henchmen in his path that Robin and Red Robin couldn't block for him, his eskrima sticks whacking and crackling as he spun between them. 

When he arrived at the vault, the sound of fighting and Mr. Freeze's woeful yelling filled the room. He slipped into the room just as Batman dodged a blast of ice ray and to catch the shouted words of Mr. Freeze.

"Anniversary?" Nightwing asked Batman even though he had a feeling he already knew the answer. 

"Apparently," Batman replied. 

"What's the plan?" Nightwing moved out if the way of the ice ray aimed _his_ way now.

Batman glanced at him. "Wear him down. The ray will run out of fuel." 

"Aw," Nightwing said and turned to kick away a henchmen who'd rushed at them. The room either spun with his kick or else he _really_ needed to have the inside lenses of his mask cleaned or checked out. "You big softie." He blinked deliberately and the blurriness cleared.

Just in time because Batman's glare was profound. _Right_ , Nightwing thought, _not in front of the henchman_. Batman had a reputation to uphold. They didn't need to know that Batman was taking it easier on Freeze tonight out of pity for his and his wife. Henchmen and goons didn't get Batman empathy knowledge rights. Only the reoccurring or long-standing villains were allowed to discover that.

The next henchman that Nightwing punched recoiled from the backlash of the blow at just the wring time and ended up having his whole upper arm and shoulder frozen over by Mr. Freeze.

"Ooh," Nightwing winced playfully in faux sympathy, "Your boss giving you the cold shoulder? I know how that goes."

Neither the henchman nor Bruce appreciated that witty comment. 

Mr. Freeze was crying. Still yelling very cliche evil nether-to-do's. But also now crying.

He shared a look with Batman and came to the unspoken agreement to focus on the henchmen and let indeed let Mr. Freeze wear himself out. He deserved to mourn his wife on their anniversary - even though his version of mourning looked like a bad overdramatic attempt of a robbery while having an emotional breakdown.

Yeah. It was going to be a long night. 

* * *

He held up the electronic biometric key sewn into the wrist of his suit to the window, unlocking it. He pulled himself inside his apartment and closed the window, which locked automatically behind him. He sighed as he entered the temperature-controlled apartment. Finally home.

He pulled off his boots and simply dropped them, leaving them in a heap underneath the window. He'd put them away later. He walked barefoot through the apartment to reach his bedroom, hit the light switch. He removed his eskrima sticks from their place on his back and set those down on the shelf in his closet. He peeled the suit off and quickly slung it over a hanger - a compromise, since he didn't want to hang it up properly as he usually did but he also didn't want it to have terrible wrinkles come tomorrow. He discarded his underwear into his overflowing heap of dirty laundry.

Then, shivering, he moved to the bathroom to get a cotton ball and his bottle of spirit gum remover. He scrubbed the cotton ball of spirit gum remover across his face and mask until he impatiently was able to peel it away from his skin enough to rub the area underneath there too, dissolving the resin bond just enough with hurried strokes so that he was able to pry the mask away from his skin.

He opened the glass shower door and stepped in, turned on the water before he had even closed the door again. The thought of actually washing his hair sapped away at the energy he already didn't have.

He just... needed a moment real quick to rest a bit. He was just so tired. He sank to his knees on the tiled shower floor and then moved them out from underneath him to sit more comfortably in a butterfly position where one knee hit the glass shower door and the other the tiled wall - because his shower wasn't designed to sit in and wasn't all that wide. The lotus position would have actually made more sense considering the width constraint of the shower; but he was just going to sit for a moment, so he didn't bother adjusting position when soon he'd be standing anyways. 

Right. Dick needed to get up soon, he knew that. He just didn't want to. 

Still seated in the butterfly pose, he tiredly reached up to the metal rack that hung off the shower head and grabbed for the bar of soap there. He pulled the soap down and just. Held on to it. He'd start washing in a minute. He just needed a moment.

And then he'd start washing and _then_ he'd stand up. 

Slumping forward, he leaned his forehead against the shower tile. He tightened his grip on the bar of soap in his hands and, instead of moving, closed his eyes.

The water came down and drove rivers down his hair that trailed off down his ears and nose, dripped into his eyes and made them blurry. When his mouth parted on a heavy exhale, the rivulets traveled there too and he shook his head against the tile to try to displace the feeling, to alter the water's course until it settled more toward his jawline instead.   
  


Without opening his eyes, he scrubbed at his body with the bar of soap. 

He sat there for far longer than it would have needed time to rinse the soap off. Eyes closed. Everything about him felt heavy and worn down. If he just waited - just a bit more, just another minute longer - then he'd be fine. He just... needed a moment. And then he'd stop feeling this way.

* * *

Wait, he thought and opened his eyes, how long _had_ he been sitting here? 

He was still clutching onto the bar of soap; unsure whether he had used it or not, he gave himself a quick wipe across the face and beneath his armpits in case he hadn't, then reached up and placed the soap back on the metal shelf where it belonged.

He used water-pruned fingers to push the sodden hair from his face. Brought his legs together from their butterfly position - felt it in his thighs that he'd been like that for some time - and gingerly rose to his feet. 

He turned the water off and stood there, shivering, almost too tired to move but definitely too tired _not_ to move. 

He dressed for bed with a quickness that seemed at odds with how slow his limbs seemed to move. Bypassed brushing his hair - and his teeth, he had skipped doing that earlier, had he? - and threw himself in his blanket to sleep. 

* * *

His alarm woke him up early because he forgot to turn it off for his day off. He groaned. 

He debated staying in bed but... he had told Damian yesterday that he'd join them for breakfast. And while he hadn't quite promised, he still hated to let him down without any actual reason for it.

He glanced at his alarm clock and sighed. Well _that_ was one perk of being used to waking up early: he had plenty of time to get ready, head over, and have at least a few plates of Alfred's cooking all before Tim had even woken up. 

Maybe after his visit to the manor, he and Damian could go to the city zoo or something. They would have plenty of time for it.

Or, Dick reconsidered as a giant yawn caused his jaw to ache, maybe they could have a lazy movie day together. Sneak Titus into their home theater and get some cuddles. Okay, sure, at this rate Dick would probably fall asleep halfway through _Homeward Bound_ \- and it _usually_ tended to always be _Homeward Bound_ if Damian got a say in picking the movie, though Dick didn't mind since it made him happy and plus that was a good movie - but it'd still be nice. 

But first...

Dick finally dumped the carafe of old coffee down the sink. He eyed the dishes in there as he rinsed out the carafe under the faucet and vowed to do those when he got back. 

Fresh coffee was _so much better_ than who-knows-when old coffee. He should have done this _days_ ago. 

* * *

"Good morning, Master Dick," Alfred greeted, taking a moment to look up from his task of slicing fruit to glance his way.

He of course didn't need to check, strictly speaking. By the time someone made it to the wrought iron gates, Alfred or Bruce knew about it; a visitor who made it to the front door? And then _in?_ Of course Alfred had already known who it was. The glance wasn't to verify that it was Dick instead of an intruder - it was simply an act of welcoming. 

He beamed back. "Good morning!"

He grabbed a one of the nut-topped muffin from the basket of them placed on the kitchen table where Bruce and Damian were seated. 

He leaned against the counter and took a bite out of his muffin. Cardamom walnut flavored, very nice but he'd make sure to pock out one with fruit in it for his next muffin.

He wiggled the fingers of his not-muffin-holding hand and Damian nodded in acknowledgement to him over his cup of tea. Darjeeling, if Dick were to take a guess since it was winter and Damian only switched to oolong for morning tea during the warmer seasons. 

With a simple "morning" as reply, Bruce stood from his chair and walked with his empty mug. The coffee machine was on the counter behind Dick so he made to move so that his dad could refill his cup. 

But when Dick removed his weight from leaning on the counter and had to support it himself, he swayed. 

"Whoa there," Bruce said and grabbed him by the upper arm. Quickly reached to the side to set down his mug on the table, readying himself for if he needed two hands. 

For a moment they both stared in bewilderment at his hand. Bruce as equally as stunned as Dick that he'd done so. Bruce's fingers increased in pressure, as if testing whether or not he really was grabbing Dick and needed physical proof, and then they eased up a bit. 

"Grayson?" Damian asked, brow furrowed and eyes locked onto that point of contact where Bruce's hand gripped him. His last name, huh? Just like Damian to try to distance himself away when feeling emotional.

Then his gaze lifted and he looked angry - and so terribly _young_ and worried. "What's the matter with you?" 

"Nothing," He answered honestly, addressing the both of them really - and even to Alfred, who'd set down his knife and had paused in his breakfast preparations. Bruce and Damian shared a silent look and Dick frowned. "Really, I'm fine." Neither Bruce nor Damian appeared to agree so he acquiesced a little. "Just a bit tired but it's not a big deal." 

"You've been having trouble sleeping?" Bruce asked, dark brows furrowing in worry. His dad's eyes were fixed on him but he could almost see how Bruce was visualizing a list of every reason why that could be and parsing out which ones he thought were more likely and was looking at that instead. 

"No trouble. I even slept in a little bit - yesterday actually." He shrugged. "So if anything I've gotten more sleep than normal, really." 

Damian peered up at him with an intense scrutiny that almost could hide how young he'd appeared just a mere moment ago. His eyes narrowed as he seemed to realize something. "When's the last time you ate? You look to be wasting away."

Dick rolled his eyes and reached out to ruffle Damian's hair, who only became more narrow eyed at this. As he did so, Bruce's hand finally released him; but he kept it hovering nearby as if he expected Dick to again sway, but this time topple over completely. Bruce always did try to prepare for the worst case scenario. 

Clearly drastic measures needed to be taken. 

"Honestly," Dick said in feigned exasperation, "You two are being such worrywarts!" 

It worked. At being accused of openly showing worry, both Bruce and Damian faltered. 

"Well," Bruce said, "If you say you're fine. Just make sure to get some rest." 

Damian rebounded far more easily. "It's not worry; it's common sense. Look at you! Along with the obvious fatigue, in the past month alone you've lost what - an entire three kilograms? Of course we'd notice. It's apparent that you're not conditioning yourself adequately." 

Ah so maybe including Damian in his rebuttal against Bruce had been a tactical error. See, if he wasn't so _tired_ then he would have thought of that _before_ he had spoken. 

Dick rubbed the bridge of his nose. Now that he'd implied that Damian had emotions - when he shouldn't have even acknowledged their existence if Dick had been trying to smooth things over - there was no way that Damian was going to suffer the indignity of that and just let this go. He meant well - of course, Dick knew that - but he definitely intended to drag Dick down with him; Dick had definitely played this out wrong if he had wanted them to stop trying to decipher what was wrong with him. 

Now that Damian had voiced it, Bruce too reconsidered past his own embarrassment of having feelings and once again was noticing the details he'd seen in Dick earlier. The exhaustion, the slight thinness. Bruce stopped focusing on his own mortification of being a human being and once more was able to look at Dick and _see_.

"Damian's right," Bruce said. And it hurt Dick to see the surprise that fell over Damian at hearing his father admit to it. He knew the relationship between them was - well a bit rough even though they both loved each other. And he knew that Damian had opened up to Dick way more than he had than to anyone else. But seeing the disconnect between them was disconcerting all the same. When it came to praise, Damian was bereft; Dick had hoped that Bruce would have gotten more adept at expressing his approval to his youngest son but it seemed that he'd remained somewhat stagnant in this if something like an agreement that Damian was right was enough to startle Damian.

He wanted so desperately for both their sake for them to get along better.

Then Bruce shared a silent, meaningful look with Damian, who likewise gave a _look_ back - and Dick decided that maybe them getting along wasn't in his own best interest after all.

He thought that he could still find a way to defuse the situation and make them stop worrying so much over nothing.

Except then the room blurred and he blinked quickly in an attempt to clear the smudges from his gaze and resharpen the world back into its proper place. 

"Master Dick?" Alfred asked, worried, causing Damian and Bruce to pause their silent conversation and refocus on him once more. 

Bruce's hand from earlier was still upraised, had never fully retreated back to his own side. It hovered closer now to Dick but maintained that small distance away and did not veer into touching.

"Richard?" Damian's much younger voice was sharper than Bruce's in pitch. Funny how they looked pretty similar yet sounded so different. 

Later, Dick will think that it was at this point that he passed out. Damian will haughtily correct him that he hadn't passed out - people who were passed out did not snore. 

Standing on his feet and somewhat mid-conversation, Dick fell asleep. Bruce's arms were the ones to catch him. Almost like a tender trust fall of the most parental kind. 

**Author's Note:**

> This got so long wow! I'm extra proud of how long it is because usually I'm a very slow author and writing a fic this length usually takes me months 
> 
> Also I spent a bit debating the canon jobs Dick's had or whether to just use a new one. But even though this either ignores his Spyral arc or is set before it happened, I went with the personal trainer job he had since that has a daytime shift
> 
> The ending is a bit open-ended and not super focused on the comfort aspect of the hurt/comfort, but I hope it shows that the family has already noticed there's something up with Dick and will act on it. Like the fic tags say: it kind of it sets up to be a _prelude_ to the comfort part. Just wanted to try my hand at a fic that leaned more towards hurt than comfort bc I usually am the other way round. 
> 
> Check out the series notes for the rest of the tropes on my bingo card! I'm accepting requests/prompts so if you're interested either contact me at biromantic-nerd on tumblr or leave a comment with your prompt! (Though I don't have a time frame on when it'll be written, it just depends)


End file.
